


Cairo

by WriteThroughTheNight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!Clint, Clint goes a little off the rails, Clint is dangerous, Developing Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Pre-Avengers (2012), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteThroughTheNight/pseuds/WriteThroughTheNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the time, Clint really loves his job.</p>
<p>Today is not one of those days.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>Clint has limits on what he can take, and when they're passed all hell breaks loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cairo

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Portland](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884975) by [WriteThroughTheNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteThroughTheNight/pseuds/WriteThroughTheNight). 



> So basically, I did that thing where instead of writing the sequels I've promised, or other fics I've promised I took a little plot bunny and went incredibly overboard. In one of my previous fics, Portland, I had a throwaway line about an op in Cairo, and Clint going nuts. Some wonderful person commented and said they'd love to know what happened in Cairo. Nine months later I figured it out.
> 
> I linked it as inspired by instead of as a prologue because this runs AU from Portland. Anyway, I'm not really sure what happened ten thousand words later but hey. No beta as usual, but my awesome friend bioluminescent does read things over for me. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Trigger warnings: graphic violence and blood, child trafficking, possible implied sexual abuse of children

Most of the time, Clint really loves his job.

He gets to do what he's good at, namely, never missing a target. He gets to do what he's good at with all the best toys SHIELD can provide for him. Best of all, he gets to do what he's good at with people he cares about, his best friend and the man he's been pining after for five years. Seriously, to go from half-dead in the circus dirt to saving the world and having fun doing it, well, some days Clint is afraid to blink and have the illusion shatter before his eyes.

So, most days, Clint enjoys his job and wouldn't change it for the world.

Today is not one of those days.

 

Clint bites his lip until he draws blood, and even then the copper taste doesn't wash away the bile in the back of his throat. 

His fingers clench once around the scope, and he can't make them relax again. Clint has never wanted a rifle under his hands so badly, never needed to pull a trigger so badly, hell, at this point Clint would agree to ripping apart the man before him with his bear hands.

He locks his muscles into place, swallows the growl building at his lips, and continues to watch. The compound he's observing is a mile off from the nearby city, and the breeze carries the words up to Clint.

"Good girls, very good girls." Comes the purr. "Remove them back to their cells, and make sure they get dinner tonight." Clearer to Clint than the man's voice are the cries, the sobbing of the little girls. When he makes himself watch through the scope, he sees how young they are, anywhere from eight to thirteen. They are dirty, hunched over, and covered in dried blood. Whoever drags them from the room is not gentle, and Clint knows he will hear their begging in his sleep. 

The man that Clint observes, the man that he wants to end more than anyone in a long while, smiles like the cat that got the canary. Clint wonders if he'd still be smiling with an arrow in his throat.

His shift comes to an end after awhile, but he can't get the feeling of dirtiness from under his skin. Lurking at the back of his throat is the bile, surging every time he lets myself think about how scared the girls had looked, how small-

"Hawkeye, status." Coulson says in his ear.

Something in the command soothes him, because Clint knows that his handler has his back, that Coulson won't let those girls suffer. For a second, it's easier to breathe. Coulson has that effect.

"Heading down and out now, sir."

"Affirmative, report back when clear."

Clint taps the earpiece once in agreement.

Even moving, slipping through half-renovated floors and down dilapidated stairs, Clint can't help but feel like there are ants under his skin. He's not running away, he knows this logically, yet with every step he takes he can't help feel like he's abandoning the kids. The sound of their begging rushes back into his ear, and Clint nearly stumbles.

Clint sucks in a breath of hot, dry air, and it rattles in his lungs. As he spills out onto the street, he's shivering. No matter what he wants to do, he forces himself to walk away from the abandoned building he'd used as his perch, and not look back.

The trek back to the city and anonymity takes ages and then some. Clint speaks into his earpiece with reluctance, with desperation. He wants nothing more than to hear Coulson's voice again, he wants nothing less than to think about how he's spent his day.

"Agent, report." Coulson says. So Clint does.

He tells all of it, from sentry positions to overheard snatches of conversations. There's a reason he's the best, and that's because he doesn't forget. When he runs out of technical details, Clint moves onto the ones that turn his palms sweaty. He continues his report in the same level tone of voice, because even if Coulson would forgive him this weakness, it could be the thing that breaks him. Clint tells him of the little girls, and the ones not so little anymore. Everything he saw, he lists, in cold, sharp words, as if it makes it hurt less.

Coulson doesn't interrupt him even once, and Clint wants to thank him for it, but the words have dried up in his throat.

Maybe something in his tone gives Clint away despite his best intentions, because when Coulson answers back, his voice is less harsh, nearly gentle if Clint still believed in that sort of thing.

"Good work, Barton. I'll see you tonight."

This is the point where Clint would normally add a witty rejoinder, something equally as flirtatious as it was sarcastic. Today, his words are all dried up, and he doesn't even try. Before Coulson can say anything else, Clint flicks off his earpiece.

He finds the nearest waste basket, and vomits up everything in his stomach. Distantly, Clint hears the screams of the little girls, the begging ringing through his ears. The vomit doesn't expel the lump in the back of Clint's throat, and he thinks, if he were anyone else, he would cry.

Because he's Hawkeye, Specialist of SHIELD, all he does is rub a hand across his mouth and continue his journey back to the safe house.

 

Even in sleep Clint is pale and worn out, Phil Coulson notes. He watches his agent from the foot of the bed, ignoring the worrying connotations of the action. Since the true dirtiness of this job came to light, Clint has been consistently fading. Though the senior agent can't openly admit it, he's missed the smart-ass remarks over the comms, the sass that bordered on insubordination. Hell, Phil thinks, he can probably openly admit it anyway. It's not like anyone in SHIELD is stupid enough to not see the way he favors his team.

No one cares, not with a record like theirs. Anyway, despite claims to the contrary, Fury has a soft spot for Phil's ex-carnie and Russian assassin. They may cause extra explosions and that specific vein above the Director's eye to twitch, but no one else could get away with calling him a pirate to his face.

Clint shifts uneasily on the bed, face twisting into a grimace. Phil's fingers twitch toward him. Some part of him wants to sit on the edge of the bed beside the archer and comb the hair back from his forehead, hold him until his sleep is easier. Phil makes himself take a large step back.

_Clint is not interested in you. You are his handler, and nothing more._

It hurts to walk out of the bedroom, but Phil does it anyway. As a distraction, he turns his mind to Natasha, checking the clock to see if it's time for a check-in. Almost on cue, Phil's phone vibrates against his side. 

He presses it to his ear.

"Coulson."

"How is my favorite hawk holding up?" Natasha purrs. As there's no one to see, Phil lets his brow furrow, lets some of his frustration seep into his voice.

"He's shutting me out." He admits. "It's obviously affecting him, and he won't talk to me, won't let me help him."

Over the line, Phil hears shifting, presumably Natasha settling into a more comfortable position.

"We all have our demons." 

Phil huffs before he can stop himself. When Natasha speaks again, it's clear she's amused.

"I know you want to vanquish his for him, but you can't. Only he can deal with them."

"I can help." Phil finds himself protesting, near whining.

"He has to come to you." She tells him, and Phil hates hearing what he already knew. Clint won't come to him, because if the archer is one thing, its stubborn. He'd bleed out rather than let anyone know he was hurt, and that's not hyperbole, in the early days Clint had tried just that. They've moved past it, Phil hopes, but it doesn't mean Clint is any more willing to appear weak.

"You could just tell him that you're in love with him."

Phil freezes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Agent Romanoff." Phil says, tongue heavy in his mouth. It's his secret, his biggest secret, and if Natasha knows...

"Whatever, Coulson." She snorts down the line. "Can we get on with this check-in anyway? I'm trying to work."

Phil shuts down the part of himself that wants to hide under the bed, and straightens. Natasha can't see him, but it serves the purpose of steadying him. One of his team is alone and undercover, his non-existent love life is strictly irrelevant. 

"Very well," Phil says, the epitome of professionalism, "Report."

Natasha infiltrated the smaller splinter group of the operation Clint and Phil are taking down. It's on the other side of the country and focused more on weapons trade than people. Natasha is working to shut it down with Sitwell as her backup, while Clint and Phil deal with the larger compound, with a half-dozen agents on standby.

Her information coalesces nicely into what Clint and Phil have gathered, and they roughly outline a synchronized takedown for the next day. It'll be finalized later on, but Phil is just glad to get the taste of Egypt out of his mouth. Clint isn't the only one desperate to pull the trigger on the monsters keeping these children; just listening to Clint's summary of every day leads to Phil wanting to punch something. The too level tone that his archer relays it in does nothing good for his temper either.

Unsurprisingly, Natasha catches his wavering attention, and she sighs.

They've done all they need to, and they could easily hang up and be set for the next day, but Nat knows Phil and he knows that she can tell he's still bothered.

"He does trust you, you know." She says, half-amused, half-frustrated.

Phil pretends the words don't send a shock of warmth through him. Reflexively, his eyes dart to the bedroom, where he can just see Clint's boot on the corner of the bed. He releases his own sigh, and forces himself to face the fact that he's being stupid.

"I know." Phil replies, quiet.

"Even more than he trusts me, which is smart." Natasha continues. "If you really ask him, it's likely he'll tell you what's on his mind. Not that you don't have a good guess already."

Phil smiles and frowns at the receiver. "I don't know what you're talking about, Agent."

Natasha huffs something about idiots and boys, and disconnects the line.

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Phil throws together a few sandwiches and sits on the couch to wait. And if he positions himself so that he can see Clint and the steady rise and fall of his chest, well, there's no one but them in the safe house anyway.

 

_Clint watches through his scope as the men gather up the kids. They aren't gentle, and most of the children stumble, hit the ground at least once. Their punishment is brutal, kicks, punches, bludgeoning with whatever is to hand. Blood splatters out across the dirt, and he shouldn't be able to hear the crying from this distance, but he can, and it's loud enough that he shakes with it, quakes with it-_

_He can't take it, he's supposed to just watch, but god, Clint can't take it anymore. He lines up his shot, and he takes it, and it's clean, the man goes down like a lead balloon. But then he's back up again, and Clint missed, he hit one of the kids, he hit one of the people he's trying to protect._

_All of them, sprawled on the ground, he's somehow managed to hit all of them, and they're bleeding out. Little children, babies, and Clint's killed them. And he can hear, even from this distance, as one of the men slings a limp body into his arms. A little girl with dark hair made darker as it drips with blood._

_And the man says,_

_"Well, this makes things easier. At least they won't struggle now." And he turns and tips his hat in Clint's direction-_

_Except, he's no longer on a roof with a rifle, but he's on the ground on his hands and knees. His body is smaller, his hands half the size they should be, and when the man stalks closer he towers over Clint._

_"Please." Clint begs. "Please stop, please don't do this." His voice is too small, it's wrong, too high pitched, but it doesn't matter, he doesn't have time to figure this out. Time is up, and the man fists a hand in Clint's hair, hat hanging low across his eyes, and he smiles._

_"Now, you won't struggle will you? Good boys don't struggle, and I can tell, you're going to be a very good boy, aren't you Clint?"_

"I need you to listen to me, I need you to breathe. You're dreaming, Clint."

_The hand that strokes through his hair rough, and Clint struggles, he does, but the man is stronger and he's still woozy, he can't get away. The sound that makes its way out of his throat is akin to that of a dying animal._

"Clint!" There's a hand on his shoulder, gripping him and shaking him. It's far more vivid than the nightmare, and Clint reacts without thinking.

Quick as a snake, he grabs the arm touching him at the shoulder, and uses the adrenaline pumping through his veins to flip his combatant. Eyes still closed, Clint immediately pins the attacker to the bed, knife slipping from under the pillow to his hand. It's only when Clint has the blade pressed to his assailant's throat that he opens his eyes.

Phil Coulson looks back at him, blue eyes calm despite the danger pressed to his neck.

With a rush, it comes back to Clint, and he's scrambling off his handler before he's fully decided to. The knife clatters off the bed, and Clint's hands come up, the universal sign that he's unarmed. While he does that, Clint scans over Coulson, checking in a near panic that he isn't injured, that Clint hadn't done something unforgivable.

Well, then again, pinning someone with a knife to their throat after they shake you out of a nightmare is rather unforgivable by itself.

But if Clint had hurt Coulson, Coulson, the person he trusts most in the world, who gave him his life, who Clint has been in love with for going on five years- if Clint had hurt him, he doesn't know what he would do.

His breath is ragged, like he's just run a marathon, and Clint doesn't know how much of that he can attribute to the dream or to the adrenaline. Now that he's cognizant, he feels disgusting, clothes clinging to him with sweat, blood on his lips where he must've reopened the cut rather than scream. Worst of all, Clint's shaking, trembling like a child, and there's no way Coulson can miss it, as Clint's still partially sitting on him.

"Barton- Clint, I need you to look at me and take a deep breath." Phil doesn't sound mad, but then again, the other man is at his most dangerous when he's calm.

Reluctantly, Clint raises his eyes to Coulson's.

There's no anger there, no pity either, but rather a thinly-veiled concern. Something unclenches a little inside Clint, and his fists uncurl from their tightly-wound ball.

He finds himself taking a deep breath. When he exhales, Clint feels a little more stable. Despite that, when he finally speaks, it's torn and broken.

"I'm- I'm so sorry." Clint rasps. "I am so fucking sorry, Phil."

Instead of anything rational, Coulson just smiles ruefully and shrugs. The motion bumps the bed enough that Clint realizes his position over his handler, which he quickly rectifies. Because Clint just woke up from a horrible nightmare, vivid enough that he can still see the blood, he only moves far enough to sit at Coulson's hip. The warmth, however forbidden and stolen, coming from the other man does him good.

Of course, what Clint really wants is to crawl into Phil's arms, but he suspects it would be both unwelcome and too big of a hit to his dignity.

"Partly my fault. Everyone knows better than to shake awake a sleeping agent." Coulson says. And, as easy as that, Clint knows he's forgiven. 

"But still, I'm sorry I jumped you. I-" Clint clears his throat uneasily. "I really did appreciate you waking me up. It wasn't the best dream to be stuck in."

Clint turns his gaze from Coulson to the wall in front of him. Therefore, when Coulson's fingers brush carefully against the back of Clint's hand, he jumps. The touch withdraws immediately, and Clint basks in the heat left behind. He wants to look at Phil, see if the little touch affected him as much as it did Clint, but he's too scared that something on his face will give his feelings away. At the moment, Clint feels raw, scraped open and exposed. If Clint were to look at Coulson now, no doubt his handler would read all of his feelings written on his face. That's not something he can afford.

"It was no problem. I don't like seeing you in pain." Coulson's voice is rough, but affectionate.

The idea of losing that, that friendship and trust, is what keeps Clint silent. Generally, he's not shy about what he wants, but with Phil if things didn't work out it would ruin him. 

"Thanks." Clint mumbles.

For a few seconds, they sit in silence, and Clint takes the pause to brush off the last of the dream. It clings to him, like poisonous spiderwebs. In his mind's eye, he can still see the children, spread on the ground and bleeding, he can still feel rough fingers in his hair like it was yesterday instead of two decades ago. Clint shivers.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Coulson asks into the silence.

On the tip of Clint's tongue is the refusal, the logical course of action. No, he doesn't want to talk about it, there are some things better left in the past. It's not like talking about it will change anything, and it won't affect his performance, so Coulson can take his attempts at being a decent human being and fuck off. 

All of that is on the tip of Clint's tongue, but what comes out is quite different.

"Can I take a shower first? I feel disgusting."

The bed dips as Coulson climbs off, and Clint imagines a hand poised just over his shoulder. In the world of fanciful fairy tales, he imagines leaning back into it. Instead, he gets Phil walking a little bit too close as he goes to the door. Clint makes eye contact, and the other man nods.

"Yes, of course. I'll have dinner ready for when you get out."

"Thanks." Clint says, getting to his feet. 

Half of Coulson's mouth twitches up before he disappears from sight.

 

A shower does little to clear Clint's mind, and when he's dried off and in fresh clothes, he's apparently still agreed to tell Phil about one of the worst parts of his past. Clint could go back on it, tell his handler he changed his mind, and Coulson wouldn't push, wouldn't be angry.

Despite this, after they've both eaten cold sandwiches, Clint opens his mouth.

"You know I was in the circus, it's in my file, and I've talked about it before. When our parents died, Barney and I ended up in the system, going from orphanage to foster home like we were trying to win an award. When I was nine and Barney thirteen, he decided that he'd had enough, and we ran off." 

Clint pulls his knees up to his chest, and studiously focuses his gaze on the floor. It's the only way he can get this out.

"Well, Barney had heard about the circus coming through town, Carson's, and he managed to get us in as roustabouts. I've told you that the circus's archer, Trickshot, eventually took me under his wing, and taught me everything I know. But I never told you how he found me.

"When we first started at the circus, there was this guy there, name of George, and he worked one of the stands. George was always real nice, and all the kids loved him. He'd sneak us popcorn and extra dinner when he could. No one connected it to him when a few of the kids went missing, we'd just figured they'd had enough playing circus and ran away, gone back to wherever they came from. George flitted in and out sometimes, and no one thought much of that either.

"I realized after what a mistake that was."

Clint trails off, the knot in his throat making it hard to breathe.

"What happened?" Phil prompts, carefully, gently. Clint still can't look at him.

"He grabbed me one night, when a show was going on. I was cleaning the stalls of some of the horses, and then all of a sudden there was a hand over my mouth and everything went dark. I woke up in George's trailer, woozy, could barely move. There was another kid there too, one of the older ones; she was fourteen, three years older than me. She tried to keep me calm, but I- 

"George came back, and he went over to her, and-

"She fought him, I don't know what she was thinking. But she was tied up, crying her eyes out, and she still fought him. He just hit her, again and again, and there was blood everywhere, all over me, and she just stopped moving. George started muttering about lost cargo, lost profit. It turns out that he had got in with a few human traffickers, and he delivered them kids from the circus for a hefty price.

"Honestly, it's a miracle I lasted as long as I did. I don't know if it's because I had a brother, someone who would miss me, but Barney was already drifting by that point, so he could've gotten away with it. I don't think he usually took two kids at a time either, and that's partly what saved me. George was standing over me, beating on me too, and then Trickshot kicked the door down."

Clint trembles with the memory, because he's seen worse in his life, so much worse, but that was his first dead body, the first time someone else's blood stained his skin, and even so many years later he's still plagued with what ifs.

"He put an arrow through George's eye, and carried me out of there. I don't know if I managed to scream or if he'd heard Mary, but he saved my life. Afterwards, he became my mentor, taught me the bow so I could protect myself. But I still dream about it sometimes, funny right? Of all the terrible things I've done, and had done to me, it's that one that still wakes me up."

With the deluge of words finally corked, Clint feels empty, at sea. It's the first time he's ever told the story, and he can't make himself look at Phil's reaction. He's damaged goods, broken by his experiences and his actions.

"Clint..." Coulson whispers.

At the tone, both shattered and horrified, Clint's gaze jerks up.

Coulson stares at him, eyes wide and pained. Clint wants to curl into them, into the protectiveness he sees, and has to remind himself that Phil would give Natasha the same look, the same care.

"So that's that." Clint rushes, unable to hold Coulson's gaze. "Cases with child trafficking don't usually get to me that bad, but watching and not being allowed to shoot people the past week has been difficult. I'm fine, really, it's just stirred up some memories is all."

"You don't have to be okay." Phil tells him quietly. "If I had realized- we can find someone else to take your place tomorrow in the raid, you shouldn't do this if it's hurting you."

Clint cuts him off.

"Raid? Yeah, no, if you think I'm missing the chance to finally riddle these bastards with bullets, then you're an idiot, sir." He smirks at Phil, and it's a little weak, but it's still there.

Coulson rolls his eyes back.

"Watch who you're calling stupid, Barton. I sign your paychecks."

"Blatant lies." Clint shoots back. "Good old Pam in HR signs my paychecks."

Coulson huffs and grins. It's a relief that Phil isn't making him dwell on what he just shared, isn't letting it change anything.

"Whatever. Would you like to go over the plan for tomorrow?"

Clint's answering smile is just a bit too sharp.

"Would I ever."

 

Clint lines up his shot, and takes it. He doesn't pause to check the explosion of red, because in the real world he never misses.

So far, this day is going absolutely fantastic.

From the chatter in the comms, most of the children are already out of the building and to safety, and Clint has free reign to shoot as many of these assholes as he can. It's going swimmingly.

In fact, Clint's even humming under his breath, just soft enough that the comms can't pick it up. Even as he takes down another, he's swiveling his scope to check up on Coulson. 

As usual, the man is handling himself beautifully, a veritable hurricane of bullets and fists. Phil had been coordinating the evacuation of the kids, and now, he's cleaning up the mess on the ground. There are a few more assailants than everyone's intel suggested, but honestly they're handling it, SHIELD Strike Team Delta and assorted other personnel are kicking epic ass.

That's when someone pulls out a rocket launcher. How they had missed that, Clint has no idea, but someone is going to be getting his foot up their ass.

Because his luck sucks, the rocket launcher is promptly pointed in his direction and fired. Clint swears, viciously, and makes a hurried descent. Namely, shooting one of his special arrows at the wall of the compound and swinging like Tarzan.

Not a second too soon, the building that Clint had been so considerately using as a perch explodes. The heat sears his back, but Clint ignores it until he's got both feet on the ground.

"Hawkeye here, that explosion was my nest, I'm on the ground, making my way toward the action."

"Injuries?" Comes Coulson's slightly out of breath voice.

"Negative. I'm right as rain, sir. Save some of the bad guys for me, yeah?"

Coulson laughs, and Clint increases the speed of his jog.

He's just rounding the building, almost in sight when he hears the cursing in his ear.

"Agent Coulson! We've got a straggler. Little girl, your eight o'clock on top of their transport." Another agent barks down the line. It's sounds like Nichols, and Coulson responds immediately. 

"Alright, I've got her." 

"Sir," Clint starts, finally coming into view of the action. "Don't do anything stupid-"

What happens next is in slow motion. Clint sees Coulson tugging a girl, dirty and crying, off the top of a covered truck. His back is exposed, which would be fine, because another agent is covering him, except there's a fresh burst of gunfire and that agent goes down. Clint's mouth is open to shout a warning to _get down, goddammit_ when someone new picks up the rocket launcher.

He's aiming it at Coulson. 

It's too close of a target, it'll likely knock the person aiming it down with the repercussions, and Clint dead sprints in an attempt to reach him in time.

Coulson, it's clear, has a choice. If he moves now, and moves quickly, he can throw himself behind a nearby building. It'll get him out of range, likely save his life. To do that, he'll have to drop the nine-year-old girl in his arms. Clint knows, before Coulson moves, what he's going to do.

With a mighty thrust of his arms, the little girl flies through the air, into the shelter of the building. There's no time at all to act, none, and Coulson throws himself to the ground in a last ditch attempt.

Clint hits the man from behind just as he fires, and the blast goes wide.

But not quite wide enough.

Clint is thrown back with the force of the explosion, as it clips the side of the building. He hits the ground hard enough to lose his breath, and so does anyone within range of the rocket. Coulson- not quite on the ground- flies sideways into the truck, and goes still.

Mouth open to shout, maybe scream, Clint can only watch as a dark van roars up to his exposed handler. Three men jump out, and over the ringing in his ears, he makes out a few words.

"Grab... Hurry up... Leverage-" 

Clint tries to move, to get up and fight, but the weight of the man on top of him is infinite, and his limbs refuse to cooperate. All he can do is watch as Coulson is dragged into the vehicle, tossed like a sack of potatoes. He's still not moving, and god, Clint hopes he's alive.

As the van speeds away, Clint is still struggling out from under the body on top of him. There's blood dripping into his eye, possibly his own, judging by the headache, but he has to go after Coulson, he has to-

Far too late, SHIELD agents fire at the retreating vehicle.

Insides bubbling with something like panic and fear, Clint smacks his head back down into the dust.

Fuck.

 

"Clint." He hears Natasha say, as if from a great distance. "Clint, I need you to take a deep breath for me. Give me two hours and I'll meet you, and we'll go and get Coulson. You won't be any help if you do something stupid."

Clint tightens his grip on the cellphone pressed to his ear. Two hours is a long time in captivity, and it's a long time to just sit around and do nothing. Everything in Clint is rumbling for him to just get up and go get Phil by himself, screw back up.

He's pretty sure he could do it.

In a part of his mind, Clint can't stop replaying that last few seconds, being pinned and helpless, only able to watch as his handler was taken from him. This mission has had him on a short fuse. Clint's discomfortingly aware that he's far too close to the edge. If this was a normal mission, he'd be unwinding on Coulson's couch, drowsing to the sound of paperwork being filed. As is, Clint is sequestered in the temporary SHIELD base, taking deep breaths instead of yelling at people.

"Fine." He snaps down the line. Nat doesn't call him on it, doesn't snap back.

"We will get him back, Yastreb."

Clint hangs up on her.

Coulson is gone, his partner is hours away, and Clint is truly on his own. There's a legion of SHIELD agents in the next room, true, but Clint is alone in all the ways that matter. Slipping to his feet, he trembles with the useless adrenaline and something close to terror. Before Clint can think, he's whipping around, fist slamming into the table.

It does nothing but make him angry, the flimsy table buckling under the blow. Clint snarls and considers going in for another hit.

"Agent Barton?" A tentative voice calls from the doorway. Clint spins, and the expression on his face makes the junior agent cower backwards.

"What." 

"Sir," the agent swallows nervously, "Director Fury would like to speak with you."

Half of Clint wants to have the kid give a message to Fury for him- namely: fuck you- but the other half of him is still too human to sign off on the kid's death certificate.

"Wonderful." He says instead, following in the agent's wake. 

Fury's perpetually pissed-off face is waiting for him in the conference room, glower emphasized by the vein twitching above his eyepatch.

"What the hell happened, Barton." The Director barks.

Clint banks some of his anger, enough so that he'll be able to speak clearly to Fury without excessive growling.

"The operation was proceeding as planned, but apparently our intel was off. None of our previous surveillance had indicated such a heavy arsenal, which makes me believe it must have been a fairly recent development. The reinforcements too were undocumented, and it was only apparent near the end that we were dealing with significantly more combatants than we should've been."

"And? What does that mean?" Fury asks, impatience underlining his tone.

Clint shifts, takes a deep breath, and says the words every agent dreads.

"I think we have a mole."

The Director swears, dirty and sharp. Clint gives him a moment, stewing in his own anger as Nick very clearly resists the urge to shoot something.

"Explain." Fury snaps.

"They knew we were coming, sir. We got the kids out fine, let our guard down, and they clobbered us over the head with an ambush. With the rocket launcher they shouldn't've had, they took out my nest, effectively cutting off our eyes up high. Even with my shooting, my nest was covered damn well, and there is no way they knew where I was unless they were told.

"And the end? That grab and go? That was too well orchestrated to be spontaneous."

Director Fury swears some more.

"Any ideas on who the little fucker is?" 

Clint shrugs, remembering at the last moment not to bare his teeth.

"Not yet, but when I find them, there won't be much left to arrest."

Fury doesn't explicitly encourage that particular course of action, but he does give Clint a nod. Good, they understand each other.

"Status on Coulson?" 

It's only a hard bite to his cheek that stops Clint from growling, and he makes himself take a deep breath before he replies.

"As of now, we are unsure of his location. They have a few bolt holes in the city, any number of which they could be holding Coulson in. We're waiting on more solid information before we make a move."

Clint had surveilled over three quarters of all those possible hideouts, and when the time comes he is going to take the men holding his handler, and take them down hard.

"You bring him back." Fury says, and he's all Nick at the moment, dangerous and protective. "You do what it takes, and you bring him back. Do you understand me? Phil Coulson isn't going to be taken down because of some bullshit like this."

"I'm not leaving Cairo without him, Director."

"Good." Fury says, soft and sharp.

There's a knock at the door, and Clint half-turns. It's a different agent then before, less timid, more solemn. She's holding a tablet, and she steps into the room.

"Director, Agent Barton. There's something you need to see."

In Clint's gut, a ball of tension tightens.

With a few taps, the agent brings up a video, splitting Fury's screen.

She hits play.

The video shows a dirty room, lit by the window in the far corner. Clint's first thought is careless. His second is pure rage.

Coulson is in the center of the frame, tied to a chair. He's lost his field suit, stripped down to his boxers and a thin t-shirt, skin glistening with sweat. There's blood in his hair, dripping down the side of his face to meet with the bruise swelling his left eye shut. Coulson has had better days, beat to hell as he looks, and something in Clint burns.

The most concerning thing is the blood darkening his right shoulder, staining his shirt red. Despite that, clear blue eyes stare straight into the camera.

That's when the monologue starts.

"You've caused me and my organization a few problems, SHIELD. You've taken my children, my weapons, and dozens of my men. We've taken just one."

The person holding the camera steps closer to Coulson, who continues staring steadily.

"Rather remarkable, this one, my men haven't been able to get him to say a thing, not for lack of trying. He even tried to escape! So I put a bullet in his shoulder, which really places a time limit on these negotiations. If you ever want to see your man alive, you will return everything which you've taken, every last child, every last weapon. For every hour you do not comply, I will put another bullet in your agent. I imagine he only has so much blood in him, no?"

A man steps out of the shadows, face concealed with some type of mask. He walks up to Phil, who doesn't even bother to look at him, and punches him in the jaw. Coulson rocks with the punch, but doesn't make a sound. 

The man lays into him, fists and feet flying, and through it all, through what must be complete agony, the only sound Coulson makes is the occasional grunt. 

The camera dips towards the ground.

"We will be in contact." Before it cuts out, there's a pained gasp, one that Clint recognizes as Phil's. Because of the new angle, all Clint can see is Coulson's feet, bare and scraped.

As the screaming starts, broken and desperate, all Clint can watch is Coulson's feet and the little pool of blood starting by the chair.

The scream echoes in his ear, even as the video comes to an end. It echoes, louder and louder, and something in Clint just snaps. It just breaks.

His vision darkens with red, with sheer bloodlust, and the rational part of Clint's brain just detaches. What's left is anger, fueled by the sound of Phil's screaming, by the atrocities he has spent the last week idly observing, by the sheer arrogance of the men that thought they had any right, any right at all to lay a hand on his Phil, his handler, his _friend_.

A sound tears it's way out his throat, an inhuman mix between a snarl and roar. Before his ears shut down completely, Clint vaguely hears voices talking to him, saying something. But then even that is gone, and the only thing on Clint's mind is revenge, the need to deal out punishment for making Coulson scream, the imperturbable unshakeable Coulson. They made him scream, and that's the only thing on Clint's mind.

He loses time, simple as that. The events of the rest of the day never come completely clear, a result which Clint will be glad of in the bloody aftermath. All he has are snatches, pieces of the puzzle.

First, there are his weapons under his fingers as Clint gathers them from storage, as he suits himself up for war.

Second, is pavement under his feet as Clint makes his way to where the men are holding his friend, the man he loves. They were careless, so careless, that they let the video show their surroundings. Clint surveilled their bolt holes, he knows exactly where they are.

The next memories are tainted with red, so much red that it can't only be from Clint's fury.

There is the singing of his bowstring, as he releases arrow after arrow and bodies fall like dominoes.

When fighting is too close for shooting, there is the visceral feeling of an arrow in his hand, sinking into someone's neck, spraying blood across his arm, across his face. Clint does not shoot, but he still uses his arrows, like knives, like harbingers of death. They sink into flesh, cut through it like butter, and Clint can feel the smile on his face, can taste the blood in his mouth.

He laughs.

There is the sharpness of his knife when Clint runs out of arrows, and the equally deadly weapons of his fists when he grows bored of his knife.

There is no one to pose a challenge to him, no barrier he cannot destroy with the screaming reverberating throughout his body.

Then, this is the last thing he remembers.

Coulson, tied to a chair in front of him, bleeding everywhere and unconscious. A man attempting to stop him, attempting to waylay him.

There is a pipe in his hands, and Clint doesn't know where it came from, but the sound it makes when he buries it in the mans skull is perfect, is music, so he does it again and again.

There's blood everywhere, everywhere, and Clint thinks he hears screaming.

It might be him.

 

"What do you mean you lost him." Natasha snaps.

_"I mean Barton's gone, Agent Romanoff. After the video threat, he just lost it. Gathered up his weapons and disappeared."_

"Fuck." Natasha wants to hit something. "Do you know where Coulson is being held?" 

_"Do you think Hawkeye's gone to mount a rescue?"_

"Do I think- of course he's going after Coulson! Where. Is. He."

The agent on the line flinches, she can feel it. He rattles off an address, says something about how SHIELD is getting a team together for a strike. Natasha scoffs.

"I won't wait up."

She disconnects, and renews her journey to Cairo with fresh urgency. Not even ten minutes later, she's pulling up in front of the address SHIELD gave her. 

Immediately, she notes the two men out front, downed with an arrow to their throats. She steps over their bodies, gun in hand, and makes her way fully into the building. 

The first thing she sees is blood.

It coats everything, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The numerous bodies lining the way.

Despite herself, Natasha is both alarmed and impressed. Clint must have made his way through like a machine, efficient and deadly. The further she gets the bloodier and messier the scene becomes. It's with a horrified fascination that she observes her partner's descent into brutality, from shooting to stabbing to apparently tearing apart with his bare hands.

It appears that no one stopped him, and the bodies keep piling up. Natasha is fairly squelching now with every step, blood seeping into her shoes. By the time she rounds the corners, she's almost afraid of what she'll find.

There's a body on the floor, and the only thing that Natasha can tell is that it used to be human. Probably.

It's face is caved in, beaten into something that resembles raw meat more than anything else, and a few feet away is a metal pipe, coated with, dripping with, blood.

Entering fully into the room, what Natasha sees stops her in her tracks.

Coulson is tied to a chair, bloody and beaten with a bullet wound in his shoulder. Crouched in front of him, shaking and poised on the balls of his feet, is Clint.

Her partner is covered in blood. It plasters his hair to his forehead, stains his clothes as thoroughly as his skin. Just about the only thing not red are his eyes, which glare at Natasha. She gets the feeling that they're looking, but not really seeing.

From the way Clint snarls when she steps towards him, she's betting that he doesn't even know who she is.

"Clint." Natasha whispers. "Clint, are you with me?"

There's no response. And Natasha, deep down where she tries not to look too often, feels the first stirrings of fear.

She keeps up a constant litany of words, soothing, gentle but Clint doesn't respond. He stops growling but he doesn't unwind either, doesn't really see her. Finally, helpless to any other method of attack, she starts to sing.

The words of a Russian lullaby roll off her tongue, soft and rhythmic. They give Natasha some type of peace, and in her mind's eye, she can see the other times she's sung this to Clint, when one or both of them were bleeding out, or stranded, or just plain maudlin from too much to drink.

Slowly, painstakingly, the melody reaches Clint.

Natasha walks as close as she dares, and it's because of this subtle approach that she can catch Clint when he goes limp.

It's as if all the tension just rushes out of his frame. Natasha cradles him to her chest, gentle, careful, and doesn't let up humming. Clint slumps against her, breathing ragged against her neck.

"Nat?" He sounds scared. "Nat, what happened?" 

She swipes a light hand over his hair, heedless of the blood it stains her with. Clint is shaking now in her arms, trembling not from being near feral, but from exhaustion.

"Hush now, I've got you." She tells him.

Clint shudders once, and quits moving. Natasha sighs in relief as sleep overtakes him.

Determined to check on Coulson, she stretches the last couple of feet, keeping Clint held tight with one arm.

Phil's pulse is faint but steady, and she exhales again.

Moments later, she's made aware of the SHIELD team, following the trail of Clint's destruction. Natasha can hear the cursing, the murmurs of horror, and wonders how difficult it'll be to get Clint cleared from psych once this is over.

It's self-evident that the agents have reached Natasha when she hears retching and poorly cut-off gasps.

"A-Agent Romanoff?"

Natasha turns, sizing up the woman standing in the doorway. She's pale, faintly green, eyes wide and shocked. But she's handling it pretty well in comparison to some of the others, who Natasha can hear throwing up whatever was in their stomachs.

"What happened here? It's a bloodbath; who did all of this?" The agent asks.

Natasha doesn't say anything, simply watches calmly as the woman's eyes finally drop to Clint, who's sleeping somewhat peacefully. Reflexively, the other takes a step forward and starts,

"Agent Barton! Is he-"

Natasha stops her quickly and brutally.

"The answer to your question? Yes."

The agent plays that over in her head, and miraculously grows even paler. Clint shifts in her arms.

"Agent Coulson needs a medic." Natasha snaps. "So stop standing around gawking and do your job."

As the other woman hurries away, Natasha smiles humorlessly, and wonders how difficult it'll be to get everyone on this mission cleared from psych.

Nigh impossible, she imagines.

 

Coulson can't say he's surprised to wake up, because he has confidence in his team, but it's still nice to be alive. Everything is slightly fuzzy, and his shoulder is only a faint ache, so they must have him on the good stuff.

He's not complaining,

The one thing Phil _can_ feel is the vice like grip on his left hand, and the warmth up against that side.

Unsure what to expect, he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. It takes a few seconds to blink away the spots, and then Phil is glancing down. What he sees makes his next inhale catch in his throat.

Clint's head and shoulders are slumped against the hospital bed, one hand holding tight to Phil's. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Clint looks pale, shaken, as if he's the one that needs to be in the hospital bed, not Phil.

Despite this, he feels nothing but warmth and safety when he looks down at his archer.

God, he's so screwed.

Something in Phil's breathing must give him away, because only a few seconds later Clint's sitting up with a start, tense, eyes flicking every which way.

They flick over to Coulson, and the smile he's gifted with is beatific. 

"Was starting to think you'd never wake up, sir." Clint says.

Phil clears his throat, and manages to force out, "Then who'd do your paperwork, agent?" 

The sound of Clint's laugh lights up the room. Did Phil mention he was screwed? Yeah, he's screwed. Before he even has to ask, Clint is up and moving, sadly dropping Phil's hand. He comes back with water, however, which he makes Phil carefully sip, so it's forgiven.

When Phil eventually slips the straw out of his mouth, he feels a little more human.

"You know, Coulson, you had me worried." Clint blurts. "I'd just shared all my deepest, darkest secrets and then you go and try to die on me? Not cool, sir."

Phil wants to reach out, smooth the expression off Barton's face, and his fingers twitch with the urge. Instead, he keeps his voice gentle as he replies.

"I'd never leave you on purpose." And wow, Phil really did not think that one through. It smacks of lovesickness, of an unrequited crush.

Inexplicably, Clint turns red.

Desperate to turn the conversation from his pathetic devotion, Phil scours around for a topic. Oh, right, the most important thing.

"Sitrep? How is it you got me back, since I apparently slept through it."

Clint certainly loses his blush, but to a worrying extent. He goes pale, faintly green at the edges, and it once again highlights the fact that he looks like he got run over by a truck. It's not Clint that eventually replies.

"Clint cut through their forces like butter. Seriously Coulson, you'd be impressed. He was a one man wrecking team." Natasha says. Phil turns his gaze to her, and she's leaning in the doorway, so relaxed that it's obvious she's tense.

"Natasha-"

She waves Clint off.

"It's fine, Yastreb. You left a good deal of traumatized field agents in your wake, however, and I am not holding them through their nightmares. Most of them seemed to object to the rather copious amounts of blood."

If the sudden way Clint flops back into a chair is any indication, they weren't the only ones who objected to the blood. Phil is confused and hospitalized, without a suit as armor, and he just wants a straight answer. Is that too much to ask?

"Could one of you," Coulson starts through gritted teeth, "Give me a explanation that isn't vague about what the fuck happened in Cairo?" 

Both Natasha and Clint abruptly appear sheepish, even if Clint's apologetic look is slightly dampened by the way he can't seem to stop picking at the scab on his hand. Sighing, Phil reaches with his good arm to stop the archer's motion.

"Clint..." Coulson reprimands.

For a second, Clint meets his eyes, and what he sees there warms something in him, but the other man is glancing down and away before Phil can analyze it.

"I don't-" Clint clears his throat. "I don't actually remember what happened." Phil stares. "I mean I have bits and pieces, but I really don't recall most of it before Natasha found me."

On cue, Coulson turns his gaze to Natasha, still posed in the entranceway. She meets his gaze, blank and calculating, before steeping into the room and tugging the door shut. Some of the weariness she must be feeling shows in her posture.

"I was across the country when you were taken, but I know enough." Walking up to the bed, she wraps an idle hand around the safety rail meant to stop unfortunate falls. It means Phil has to look up at her, or struggle into an upright position. Despite the power play, he decides to stay lying back. Let Natasha have control if that's what she needs to tell him what the hell is going on.

"From what I've gathered from other agents, Barton went into a conference with Fury and they discussed the situation. Midway through, the video threat was found and shown to the both of them. Witnesses say that Clint watched until the very end before he stormed out with no warning."

"It was the screaming." Clint whispers. Phil nearly gets whiplash from the speed in which he turns his head to watch the other man. Clint's eyes are tightly shut, and his shoulders hunched in like he's preparing for a blow. "I was pissed and scared, but then you started screaming, and I just couldn't. I just couldn't, Phil." 

The jolt the use of his first name sends through him doesn't outweigh the sick feeling that seeing Clint so distraught leaves him with. If Phil focuses, he can remember the camera pointed at him, and talking, but mostly he remembers the beating and the hand buried in his bullet wound. 

He doesn't remember screaming, but perhaps that's telling enough.

"Video feeds show Clint immediately went to the makeshift weapons facility and suited up." Natasha continues. Her face is hard, unyielding, unsympathetic, but the concern for Clint shows in lines around her eyes. "Anyone that tried to stop him was put aside or put down, no serious injuries."

Phil watches Clint now instead of her, watches how every word seems to draw him further into himself. 

"He'd apparently gathered your location from the video, and he didn't waste time getting there. He lost any attempted tails, and effectively dropped off SHIELD's radar." 

"I'd done the surveillance on most of their safe houses." Clint's voice is muffled with the way he's folded over, and Phil has to strain to decipher it. "I knew where they were from the second that video started."

"This next part has no surviving witnesses, and I can only gather what happened from observation."

"Clint," Phil interjects, before Natasha can start. "You don't remember any of this at all?"

The archer shakes his head, even goes as far to lift it enough to look in Phil's general direction.

"Just- The only thing is the blood. That's all, just," Clint shudders hard. "Just the blood. There was so much of it."

"Yes," Natasha says clinically, "There was. Clint took down every single man, a good two dozen from what we can tell. Most were in hand to hand combat, as he seems to have ditched his bow fairly early on. The last was bludgeoned to death and then some with a metal pipe." 

Phil feels queasy just thinking about it. Clint finally acts on the nausea and vomits. He manages to direct most of it into a handy waste bin, and before Phil can abort the motion he's trying to sit up, to go to his agent and offer comfort.

Thankfully, Natasha shoves him back down before he can do any damage to his stitches. She stands over Clint and waits until he's finished, strokes a hand through his hair. He leans into the touch, and Phil watches, inappropriately jealous. 

_"You needed to get it up."_ Natasha says to Clint in Russian. _"I'm sorry, my hawk, but you needed to be rid of it and you needed to hear what happened from me first."_

"Thank you." Clint murmurs into her stomach.

Feeling sorely like he's intruding on a private moment, Phil fumbles the cup of water into his good hand, and holds it as far in Clint's direction as he dares.

"Rinse and drink." He orders, practical since Natasha apparently has the emotional side under control.

Which is good, because Phil is too busy reeling from the new information to take care of Clint.

The idea that his archer went off the rails for him, so far gone that he can't even remember it, both horrifies and awes him. He'd never want Clint to go through something like that on his account, but the fact that he did gives Phil a small measure of hope. That maybe his affection isn't completely one sided. But then again, he tells himself, Clint would probably do the same thing for Natasha and they put an end to their sexual relationship years ago.

Another part of Phil is angry and ashamed that he wasn't there for Clint, to keep him steady and clearheaded. 

The last small part of him, the part that fanboys over Captain America and can't get enough of Clint's arms when he shoots, goes _Ohmygod badass!Clint is so hot!_

He kindly tells that part to shut up, reminding it pointedly that bloodshed is not a turn-on in any circumstance. It only partly listens.

"The rest of it is simple. I showed up and found Clint crouched in front of you, covered in blood and not moving. He didn't appear to recognize me, but I eventually talked him down and he passed out. SHIELD was right behind me, and I stand by my position that I will not be dealing with the fallout in Psych." Natasha claps her hands once, and heads back to the door. "Now I'm going to go get us coffee, and you two are going to talk. Understood? Great."

The door closes with a too loud bang, and Phil blinks. When he looks over still Clint, he's still hunched around the trash basket, and Phil casts around for something to get that look off his archer's face.

"Well, I'm certainly not dealing with Psych." Coulson settles on. "They refuse to speak to me after the incident with the pizza box, cactus, and Director Fury's eyepatch."

Clint stares at him, jaw hanging.

"That's what you're- seriously?" 

Phil shrugs, and puts on his best bland smile. Clint laughs once, half incredulous, before settling into one of his usual smirks. It's a little brittle, a little fake, but he's still trying. Phil appreciates it.

"I still stand by the fact that things wouldn't have gotten so bad if you'd just ordered pepperoni instead of cheese."

"No one asked for your opinion, Agent Barton." Phil says, prim.

Clint's laugh this time is genuine if small, and Coulson feels better about things. The beat of silence they sit in is comfortable, but Clint apparently can't deal with it.

"Okay, right. So we're friends right?" Phil nods embarrassingly quickly. "So as a friend, I just, I need to say something, okay?" Clint waves his hands around. "I don't like you in danger and I would fall apart if you died. There. So all this self-sacrificing shit is not on, got it?" 

"Clint, I wasn't intending to get captured." Phil reminds him.

Clint frowns at him. 

"You have to be more careful though."

Unfortunately, Phil's unable to stop his snort.

"Coming from you that's rich. At least I don't jump off of buildings without a support line."

Clint glares. But Phil refuses to feel guilty, because god knows the archer has given him enough panic attacks.

"I'm being serious, sir." Clint scolds.

Phil shrugs one shoulder, and even manages not to wince.

"And I'll do my best, but you know it's not a promise I can make."

Clint drops his gaze, and his shoulders. 

"Yeah." He says, defeated. "I know." Phil hates that tone of voice, he hates that he put it there.

Casting around for a new topic, Phil lets the silence hang, before one very important fact comes to mind.

"The little girl- did she make it out okay?" He's ashamed that he's let it lie this long without asking, and Phil's every muscle tenses. Urgency slips into his voice, because the idea that he could put Clint through all of that, go through all of that, and the child not be okay...

Clint nods immediately, doesn't mess around.

"Relax, Coulson, she's fine."

"Where is she?" Phil asks. He believes Clint, he does, but a part of him needs to make sure, needs to see. Remembering those last few seconds, that flash of connection and protectiveness when he'd seen the little girl clinging to high ground, Phil needs to know for sure.

"She's actually here, in country already." Clint tells him. His brow is furrowed, and Phil can practically see the questions lurking at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't ask them yet. "Turns out her parents were killed when she was taken, and she has no known family. But a few retired SHIELD agents who live on the outskirts of New York are going to give her a home."

Phil unclenches, smiles a little.

"That's good. I'm glad." He turns his smile on Clint, gentles it a little. "She reminded me of you."

"What?"

Phil continues, despite how revealing the information is, because he has this need to make Clint understand, to see.

"She went for high ground as soon as there was danger, just like a certain someone I know. She was stubborn too, what little we talked." Phil closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "More importantly, I saw in her what could've happened to you. What almost did happen to you. I couldn't protect you when you were a kid, but I could protect her."

When Phil finally opens his eyes and looks to Clint, the archer is staring at him. There's something in his eyes before Clint covers it, a mix of longing, and awe, and something warm and dark that makes Phil shiver. This, on top of everything, gives him hope, and Phil's mouth is moving before he can stop it.

"Would you like to go out for coffee with me?" And oh my god he did not just ask Clint out, this is going to go terrible, what was he thinking-

"Coffee? Nat's getting coffee right now, I don't-"

Phil shakes his head because he's in now, no getting out, might as well do this right.

"Not right now, later, as a date."

"You're asking me on a date?" Clint says, slowly, as if he's feeling out each word.

Phil can't read his tone, can't read whether the other thinks this is a good thing or a bad thing, and then he's blabbering.

"Yes, I mean not if you don't want to go, but yes I'm asking. I think it'd be nice, but I won't force you, so you can obviously say no, I just-" And Phil hasn't fumbled a proposition this badly since he was a teenager, and wow his ears are turning red.

Clint cuts in with that same level tone of voice.

"I've been in love with you for five years."

Phil blinks, words dying in his throat. He stares.

"Me too." Phil says.

Clint is the one blinking now, looking faintly stunned.

"You too?" 

"Yes." Phil smiles ruefully, even as most of his brain has shut down from pure shock. "Maybe even longer, I'm not sure."

"Oh." Clint says, and he still looks completely stunned. Phil really wants to kiss that expression off his face, and he nearly laughs when he realizes he might now be able to do just that.

"So is that a yes on the coffee?" Phil says, after he's judged Clint had had long enough to think on it.

"Is that a-" Clint laughs. "Yes, Phil, that's a fucking yes to coffee, and a movie and dinner afterwards."

Phil thinks about that.

"I don't know if there's anything good out right now."

Clint laughs again, and he can't seem to stop. Phil watches with affection as the archer hunches over, shaking he's laughing so hard. 

"Oh my god." Clint says once he's straightened up. "I could kiss you right now."

Phil puts on his best are-you-stupid-or-just-incompetent look, and beckons with one finger.

"Hop to it, Agent Barton. We don't have all day here."

Clint scrambles out of his seat to comply. Their foreheads bump, as do their noses, and that sets Clint off again. Phil catches his lips with his before he completely loses his attention.

It's not the best first kiss. Clint threw up less than an hour ago, and Phil has been in the hospital for god knows how long, so it's no surprise they both really need to brush their teeth. But Phil can forget about that, can really easily forget about that actually, if he focuses on the sensation of Clint's lips on his. 

There's warm heat pooling in his stomach, and Phil lifts his good hand to Clint's hair. He runs his fingers through it, and it's surprisingly soft. Phil thinks _mine_ , and pulls him in closer.

"About time! I've never met two people more oblivious in my _life_." 

Clint jerks away and Phil is sad to see him go.

Natasha stands in the doorway, a mix of exasperation and affection on her face and two coffees in her hand. She sets the drinks on the table by the door.

"No, keep going, I swear to god if you two find a way to mess this up I will lock you in here again." With that she turns on her heel, and slams the door.

When Clint starts laughing, Phil joins him. That is, until he can reach up and drag Clint back down for another kiss.


End file.
